You've attended more than your fair share of funerals. All kinds, too. From rushed group ceremonies over a field of dead, to cremation without any rites, to full-on real funerals.
But you've yet to experience a king's funeral.
The cathedral is packed. The commoners sit in the back of the massive structure, a line of guards keeping the massive group away. Nobles, many who participated in the banquet, sit toward the center. The royal family and Sobik's close friends take up the middle.
You are in none of these groups. You lean back against a wall, taking comfort in the little attention this spot brings. You gaze up at the beautiful stained-glass windows, which shine their multicolored light into the cathedral.
In the very front of the church sits an empty casket. While normally the body of the deceased would be on display, it has already been buried. Two weeks in the sweltering summer heat isn't good for a decaying corpse.
An archbishop, clad in simple white robes with red trim, speaks his sermon about the king. You mentally check out.
Death is a common affair. You've seen, and caused, so much. You are unfazed. Death is everywhere. It stalks the ranks of every walk of life.
Especially children.
Just because it's common doesn't make it any less painful. People still mourn. People still grieve. Even though the bishop may speak so highly of the virtues of the heavenly paradise, death is still death.
The bishop speaks of God's mercy and kindness to the faithful. Of his fair judgment of the souls of the dead. He speaks of the days when the Redeemer came down as a man in order to bring man back to God.
You note that people rarely grieve for the loss in public. Whenever they speak of the fallen, it's to pray for God to bring his soul to paradise.
Few tears are shed during Sobik's funeral. Mira is the only one who openly weeps.
As the bishop speaks more of the beauty of heaven, you idly wonder whether Sobik would even end up there. He suffered a "bad death." There was no time for last rites. There was no time for penance or goodbyes. Just a single crossbow bolt to the heart.
In your opinion, no death is a "good death," but you'd rather take a crossbow to the heart than suffer the agonizing decay of age.
The bishop speaks more of the Redeemer, who died in agony for the sins of man. He speaks of the Father, who in his mercy, gave man the Redeemer to save humanity from the fires of hell.
Heaven and hell seem quite distant to you. You can't really imagine what they'd look like. What would eternal paradise even be? Would you even want eternal happiness?
Living forever… always happy… always fed… no more war… nothing ever again…
It's an intoxicatingly good idea.
A voice on your left whispers to you. "Arthur Hornraven… we's have a problem."
You turn your head slightly, looking out of your peripheral vision. Darin is standing to your left, evident concern upon his face. Despite his limp, he manages to be uncannily quiet.
"We have a… situation."
"What's wrong?" you ask.
Darin reaches into a small satchel hung on his belt and pulls out a note. The noise is muffled by the ritualistic reply of the crowd, "God is merciful."
He hands a note to you and says, voice suddenly serious, "Read."
You nod, and Darin returns the gesture. He then turns around and hastily makes for the exit. His limp slows him down, so it takes him a while to reach the cathedral doors.
Unfolding the small bit of parchment, you squint to make out the words. You were educated in those seven years you stayed at the castle. Even after being cast down, your father kept your private tutor to continue your studies.
Perhaps he expected you would need to be literate. Perhaps he intended to use you as a weapon all along.
You have difficulty reading the words. At first, you think you must be reading it wrong. You look it over and over. But there's no mistake. The handwriting is well and truly that of your father's. The royal seal is placed on the corner of the letter in all its majesty.
There's no mistake.
No mistake.
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